


A Geography of Bodies

by patster223



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Civil War (Marvel), F/F, First Time, Mild Sexual Content, Road Trip, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 06:55:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6228331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patster223/pseuds/patster223
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Registration Act is passed and their superheroes are the ones who need saving, Claire and Karen go across the country to find the one piece of evidence that might turn the tide of this civil war. </p><p>It sounds like a pretty straightforward plan to Claire. But, as in all things superhero-related, she once again finds herself surprised. Because, along with saving New York, Claire thinks that she and Karen just might save each other too. </p><p>Written for the Daredevil Kink Meme Repost Madness challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Geography of Bodies

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/1296.html?thread=1380112#cmt1380112) on the kink meme: 
> 
> "I just want Karen and Claire on a road trip together, staying in cheap hotels and eating in greasy diners, maybe trying to gather information on something related to protecting hell's kitchen, carefully opening up to each other on the endless, isolated roads that make it feel like nothing they say is quite permanent, slowly getting to know each other and realizing they have more in common than they thought. Maybe one night the heat goes out in the room they're staying in, or the only vacancy left is a double bed. Just anything about these two together would be amazing please. Bonus points for an AU where Ben is still alive and is the person Karen calls to update on their progress. Maybe she accidentally lets slip that she might be developing feelings for her partner in investigative journalism of dubious legality idk. I just really love Ben and Karen's friendship ok."
> 
> I decided for their road trip to be prompted by the events of the comics version of Civil War. Thank you so much to [decadentmousse](http://archiveofourown.org/users/decadent_mousse/pseuds/decadent_mousse) for betaing this! <3
> 
> Warning for a one-sentence mention of domestic abuse happening to a family member of a main character.

 

“This is a bad plan,” Claire says, because _somebody_ needs to say it. It was never going to be Matt, not when Matt’s attracted to bad ideas like a moth to a flame. And Claire hasn’t known Karen long, but she has a feeling Karen is _way_ too similar to Matt to say it either.

So that just leaves Claire. _Great._

But maybe Claire isn’t giving Karen enough credit, because Karen just nods as if what Claire just said was a given.

“Of course it’s a bad plan,” Karen says, drumming her fingers against the steering wheel. “It’s _Matt’s_ plan.”

Claire, caught off guard, actually snorts. It’s the first time she’s laughed since this whole mess started.

“Yeah,” Claire agrees. “Not sure if it even qualifies as a plan when _he’s_ the one thinking of it.”

Because a plan requires one to think about it in advance, and Matt just…hadn’t done that. It hadn’t been for lack of opportunity either. They’d known about the Registration Act for months now. Matt has had _weeks_ to listen to legislators debate whether heroes even have the right to secret identities, but when the hammer fell—when Daredevil was declared one of many illegal, unregistered vigilantes—Matt acted like he hadn’t even _considered_ the possibility of such an outcome.

Years have passed since Claire first found Matt in that dumpster, but sometimes she wonders if he’s changed at all. Because Matt hadn’t planned for this. All he’d done was show up on Claire’s doorstep, out of breath and _afraid,_ and tell her to _run._

“Why are you going along with all this?” Claire asks Karen. “Because the only thing that’s keeping _me_ from doubling back right now is the fact that he asked me not to. And I’m having a hard time convincing myself that that’s a good enough reason.”

“It’s not,” Karen says simply. “And Matt should have known that. If he really thinks that we’re ready to abandon our lives and—and hide like _cowards_ just because Daredevil is a target, then…then he doesn’t know us as well as I thought he did.”

 _Us?_ Claire probably shouldn’t be surprised at the word. She and Karen were an _us_ the minute they piled into the getaway car Matt had rented for them. Hell, they probably became an _us_ all the way back when they’d first sided with Daredevil. The word crackles and hums warmly in Claire’s ears nonetheless.

“You have a plan,” Claire realizes.

Karen grins. “I have a plan.”

As Karen explains her plan—breathlessly, while constantly tucking her hair behind her ears as her animated gestures displace it—Claire can feel them sinking further into danger, even as they move farther and farther away from Hell’s Kitchen. But the tightness that’s twisted in Claire’s chest ever since she first heard the words _Registration Act_ finally eases as Karen gives Claire what she’s been itching for since this whole thing started: something she can control. A plan.

All that being said, Claire can acknowledge that this isn’t a particularly _good_ plan.

“So let me get this straight,” Claire says slowly. “Somewhere, in California, Ben Urich has a contact who supposedly has a flash drive filled with evidence that…Jesus, that _Tony Stark_ has hired criminals to hunt down the unregistered vigilantes? You realize how ridiculous that sounds?”

“Ben thinks it’s true,” Karen says, which is apparently good enough for her. “Claire, if this guy’s evidence checks out, it’ll blow the Registration Act _wide_ open. All the shady shit that’s been going down behind the scenes, all the heroes that have been hurt—people will _have_ to start looking into it.”

Maybe, maybe not. But it’ll at least turn the tide of public opinion. And when it comes to people like Matt—criminals in the eyes of the law, but practically folk heroes in their own spheres—sometimes that’s enough.

Claire sighs. “And Ben’s contact can’t just email him this evidence because…?”

“The guy’s basically a hermit,” Karen says. “He doesn’t trust that Stark and the NSA aren’t monitoring his phone and email.”

“Great. So he’s either paranoid and losing it, or he’s paranoid and _right_. Not sure which one is worse at this point.”

“If it helps, Ben thinks it’s the latter.”

“It doesn’t,” Claire admits. “Because that means he’s in danger—and so are we, if we go after him. Hell, if the Pro Regs aren’t drawing the line at hiring criminals, then we can’t rule out the possibility that Ben’s contact isn’t even _there_ anymore.”

“No. We can’t,” Karen says. Her voice is suddenly made of steel and trembling anger—no longer the thing of polite conversation or idle plans. “But if that’s true, then that’s all the more reason we have to go there. They’re running us out of our _homes,_ Claire—we can’t let them do that to anyone else.”

Claire rubs her forehead, but doesn’t deny the truth of Karen’s words. How could she? If she’s being honest with herself, Claire knew she was on board with this plan from the moment Karen opened her mouth.

Still…risking all of this for a _flash drive._ At least when Claire patched up her heroes, she knew what the stakes were. She had flesh and blood in front of her to work with, something tangible and real. _This_ is an investigation, a…a _hunt._ It’s not the kind of work Claire _does._

But if Ben is right, it’s the work that she _has_ to do.

“I know,” Claire says. “God, I hope they’re all right.” She fumbles for the car radio and flips around until she finds a station that’s reporting on the Registration Act. She and Karen listen to the radio and hear heroes being registered or condemned, exalted or damned, and then captured one-by-one. They drive until New York isn’t even a speck in the distance, until the sun sets and they find a motel cheap enough to accommodate their shitty, on-the-run-from-superhero-bullshit budget.

 

***

 

The first thing Karen does the next morning is call Ben Urich. The call has all the feeling of a ritual—something that Karen does even before drinking coffee or checking the paper. Claire can tell the instant that Ben picks up, because the tense, tight column of Karen’s body immediately uncurls in response.

“How’s Foggy?” Karen asks, after they exchange pleasantries. “Did Matt make him run too?”

Karen sighs at Ben’s answer.

“Of course not,” she says. “No, I’m sure he tried, but he’s never been able to make Foggy do anything when it comes to Daredevil, has he? Or maybe the rest of us are just suckers.”

Karen huffs at whatever Ben says. “Yeah, well maybe he thought Claire and I would be more reasonable about it. God, he’s such a sexist ass sometimes.”

Claire snorts. She can’t really argue with that.

Karen smirks, though whether it’s in response to Claire’s laughter or to something Ben said, Claire isn’t sure.

“I know,” Karen says to Ben. “Don’t worry, we’re laying low. No, we _are._ We checked into a shitty motel under aliases, used the spare credit card to pay, and were pleasant yet unmemorable toward the owners.”

The way Karen rattles off this list of precautions makes Claire wonder just how routine this sort of thing _is_ for Karen. Though Claire’s routine usually involves sponging blood off of vigilantes, so maybe she shouldn’t be so quick to judge.

“How about you?” Karen says. “You shouldn’t have stayed in New York, Ben, not when half the city knows you’re friends with Darede…yeah, shit, no names, sorry…No, I’m not saying you don’t know what you’re doing, but…just, be careful, okay? We, ah…we need you over there.”

Karen sighs—this is clearly a conversation she’s had before.

Claire wonders if she’s an intruder in the space that Karen and Ben have created for each other—wonders if she _can_ be, with all the shit that binds her together with Karen Page and Ben Urich by sheer virtue of being under the same Daredevil shit show umbrella together.

Claire decides to give them some privacy nonetheless and goes into the bathroom. She brushes her teeth and thinks about New York: thinks about her mom, about Ben Urich, about everyone stuck inside a city that’s about to go to war.

Claire’s stomach twists. She spits out her toothpaste, gagging at the sudden sharpness of the flavor.

“Hey,” Karen says from outside the bathroom. “You okay?”

Claire spits again. She clears her throat. “Fine, I’m…” She opens the door. “I’m fine.”

Karen bites her lip. “You sure? ‘Fine’ doesn’t usually mean fine—at least, not in the circles we travel in.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Claire says. “I’ll be all right, Karen. I’m just…worried. About all of this. About who’s going to get caught in the crossfire if this civil war thing goes south.”

“Ben said nearly the same thing to me.”

“Great minds worry alike?”

“Maybe,” Karen says. When she bites her lip this time, it’s more considering than nervous. “He thinks we need to watch our backs. Says they might just be looking for the heroes now, but that sooner or later, someone’s going to start asking the important questions.”

“Which are…?”

“Who watches the Watchmen?” Karen says.

Claire raises an eyebrow. “Ben said that? He…doesn’t strike me as a comic book geek.”

“He’s not,” Karen says. “He prefers those cheesy, airport romance novels, if you can believe it. No, I just heard that line from a movie and thought…thought it fit what Ben was saying.”

Toothpaste and mint roil through Claire’s gut. She takes a slow breath. “Karen…have you ever read the end of _Watchmen_?”

“Well…I saw the end of the movie.”

Claire rinses her toothbrush grimly—and damn it, who has to add that kind of adverb onto an activity as innocuous as washing a toothbrush? Maybe a break from New York was what Claire needed even _before_ this shit hit the fan.

“If you saw the end of it, then you know that things don’t end so well for anyone associated with heroes,” Claire says. “Or anyone who lives in New _York_ for that matter.”

“I know. That’s why we’re here.”

Karen’s voice is low and soft, but it bursts with easy conviction. And Claire is so damn used to following that kind of conviction—is so addicted to the feeling of it resonating warmly with her own—that she can’t help but smile.

“Damn straight,” Claire says. “But, if we’re really going to wake up this early to save all of New York, then I’m going to need some-”

“Coffee?”

“ _God,_ yes.”

The closet café they find only sells sludge masquerading for coffee, but Karen drinks it happily, and Claire has choked down worse at the hospital, so it’s not long before they’re on the road again.

It’s also not long before they realize that—despite bonding over gross coffee and attempts to save their city—Karen and Claire have only ever had a few conversations in the years they’ve known each other.

“Got a favorite book?” Karen says hopefully, after they’ve run out of pleasantries to discuss.  

Claire grins. “ _Smooth._ ”

Karen groans. “I’m a workaholic who spends her free time investigating corrupt institutions with a journalist twice my age…I may have forgotten how to socialize.”

“Just maybe. _But,_ given that I’m a workaholic who spends _her_ free time patching up heroes with shit social skills, I’m probably in the same boat,” Claire admits.

“So, favorite book?”

“Favorite book,” Claire agrees. “Mine’s _Matilda_.”

Karen frowns. “Isn’t that a kid’s movie?”

“Well, it was a kid’s book before it was a kid’s movie. Also, of _course_ you’re a snob about that kind of thing.”

“I’m not a snob! I was just… _surprised_.”

Claire laughs. “It’s okay, I’m used to it. My mom gives me crap for it too. She thinks it’s weird that I read so much fantasy in a world where aliens and magic _actually_ exist _._ But hey, little girls discovering magical powers and getting their dues: never gets old.”

“No,” Karen says, the corner of her mouth crinkling upward. “Though that’s not really a fantasy these days. At least, not for some.”

True enough. Claire’s certainly patched up her share of enhanced teenage girls who decided to wear a mask instead of study for AP Chemistry.

“You know,” Claire muses, “I have to admit that the magical powers thing _definitely_ lost its appeal once I saw what actual magical people get caught up in.”

“Danny?”

“Danny,” Claire confirms, rolling her eyes when she thinks about all the weird shit that Danny Rand deals with because of his powers. Then Claire sombers as she remembers that she hasn’t heard from Danny since the Registration Act was passed—doesn’t know if he’s stayed out of jail, if he’s even _alive._

“I, um,” Karen says, obviously aware of the mood change that’s snaked its way into so many of Claire’s conversations since the Registration Act was first proposed. “I like nonfiction. Biographies, mostly.”

“Yeah…That figures.”

“What figures?”

“Oh, just that I’m trying to make a good impression on the woman I’m saving the world with, and I end up telling her that I like children’s books while she reads impressive nonfiction.”

The words have no bite to them. It’s a game Claire is used to playing, even _enjoys_ playing at this point: testing people’s reactions, seeing how they’ll respond to the world as Claire Temple sees it. The reactions aren’t always favorable. It’s a test that Mike had failed and that Matt had passed right up until it’d forced him to acknowledge his own faults, but Karen—

Karen actually _surprises_ her. Claire’s not sure anyone has ever managed that; she doesn’t surprise easily these days.

“I don’t know about that,” Karen murmurs. “A book about a girl getting the fuck out of her shitty situation sounds pretty great to me. Especially since she got to scare the fuck out of that asshole principal while she did it.”

Which. _Huh._ As a nurse, Claire tends to think of things as existing in association. Bones connect to joints, which connect to other bones, and all of it is surrounded by tissue and muscle and fat. Claire’s life is supposedly only tied to Karen’s through the connective tissue that is Daredevil.

Except that this _isn’t_ that. This is just Karen, existing in a moment independent of heroes and villains and all of the other shit that binds them together. Claire’s life has recently been so dominated by the Registration Act and her nursing that she’d forgotten that people could do that. She likes remembering it. And, in that moment of Karen speaking lowly about vengeful children’s book characters, Claire decides that she likes Karen.

Unfortunately, Karen is still _way_ too high-brow for Claire to deal with. That much is made clear as they continue the ‘favorite’ game until they finally stop to eat at a diner.

“Let me get this straight,” Claire says, as they’re ushered into a booth. “You read biographies in your spare time, pretty much the only thing you watch on TV is the news, and instead of watching Netflix you spend your evenings looking over the financial statements of corrupt corporations?”

“You spend your evenings stitching up Spider-Man,” Karen counters as she scans the menu.

Which…Fair enough. “But come on: _no_ guilty pleasures? No late nights catching up with Downton Abbey? No secret reality TV binge watching?”

Karen shrugs. “Like I said, I’m a workaholic. I don’t have time to binge watch TV, and even if my bosses gave me enough time off that I _could_ , I don’t believe in guilty pleasures. You like what you like, right?”

“Yeah,” Claire says. “I guess so.” She wonders if Karen had just passed a test that Claire hadn’t even been consciously devising. Claire watches Karen play with a strand of her hair as she orders her food and wonders if she’s gotten into more trouble here than she would’ve by staying in New York after all.

“Claire?” Karen says. She and the waitress are looking expectantly at Claire.

“Uh.” Claire’s mind blanks on what food is served here even as she stares at the words on the menu. She ends up just ordering the same thing as Karen.

“It’s not fair,” Karen says after the waitress has left.

“What?”

“ _That,_ ” Karen says, nodding toward a TV at the back of the diner.

The TV is turned to a news program. Claire doesn’t need the subtitles to know what the pundits are doing: going back and forth, back and forth on heroes, registration, and justice—just like they have been for months.

“It’s unbelievable,” Claire says. “I can’t believe they’re _still_ debating this like the Act hasn’t already been passed.”

“They’re like _vultures—_ they just can’t help but tear it all apart,” Karen says. She clutches her fork tightly in her hand. “And now look what’s happened. All the heroes have been driven underground…Hell, _we’ve_ been driven underground.”

“The heroes will get back up; they usually do. As for us, well…we’ve been through worse,” Claire says. It’s true, but saying it still doesn’t reassure Claire as she wishes it would.

“Maybe,” Karen says. She doesn’t sound convinced either. “I just…I didn’t see this coming. I mean, I planned for it, but I didn’t actually think that…I just figured they’d always be there. The heroes.”

“People come and go,” Claire murmurs. “Especially the heroes, in my experience.”

The server arrives with their lunch. Or their breakfast-for-lunch. It’s hard to keep track of what meal this is supposed to be when they’ve already been driving for hours.

“It doesn’t have to be that way,” Karen says, stabbing her eggs. “If they would just let us help instead of—of sending us _away_ …”

“You’re telling me,” Claire says, stirring more sugar than she really needs into her coffee. She can practically hear her mother’s reprimands all the way from New York. “Sometimes I wonder if that’s why they wear the masks: so they can hide the fact that they’re human from the rest of us.”

Karen rolls her eyes. “What a bunch of emotionally repressed bullshit.”

Claire grins. “Again: you’re telling me. It only makes their jobs harder—hell, it only makes _our_ jobs harder. It means we end up going underground and eating these greasy eggs.”

“Mine aren’t bad,” Karen says, though when she takes a bite to prove it to herself, her face twists in disgust. “Okay, yeah, those are shit.”

On the TV, the debate only grows more vicious; one commentator’s face is redder than Karen’s tomato juice. Suddenly, Claire isn’t sure she could eat another bite, even if the eggs _had_ been properly cooked.

“I can see their perspective,” Claire admits. “I’ve seen how out of control some of those heroes get—hell, sometimes _I’ve_ wondered if they need someone to make sure they don’t cross any lines. But this…” Claire shakes her head. “Maybe the Pro Regs were right to a point, but as soon as they started hunting people down, I stopped wondering if they were the real good guys in this.”

“Ben says that there’s no such thing as good guys or bad guys. Just people with different agendas,” Karen says, sipping at her coffee. The juice sits untouched. Claire gets the feeling that Karen wishes it were something far stronger.

“And do you believe that?” Claire asks.

“No,” Karen says. “Right after Ben said that, Fisk nearly ripped Ben’s god damn head off. And now these people are trying to—to gun down the people who save our lives _every day._ I don’t lose any sleep calling them the bad guys.”

Given the bags under Karen’s eyes, Claire’s not so sure that’s true. But Claire didn’t sleep either last night, in the stifling heat of their motel room, so she doesn’t comment on it.

“Here’s to being good guys,” Claire says, wearily holding up her coffee.

Karen snorts, clinks her mug against Claire’s, and they both down their cups before quickly ordering a refill.

 

***

 

The next morning, halfway through her daily call to Ben, Karen enters the bathroom and says, “He wants to talk to you.”

Claire raises an eyebrow, but spits out her toothpaste and holds out a hand for the phone.

“Hello?” she says.

“Hi, Claire. My name’s Ben Urich, I’m a reporter for the Daily Bugle,” Ben says. The greeting is odd, but given so automatically that Claire wonders if he’s too used to it to introduce himself any other way.

“…Hi. My name’s Claire Temple, I’m a nurse at Metro General.”

Ben chuckles. “That does sound awkward when you’re on the other side of it. My wife likes to make fun of me for introducing myself like that too. It’s just habit I guess—I’m too used to having to badger people for interviews.”

“Not as much of a problem in my profession. Don’t really have to badger people to come in for medical care—unless they’re a part of _my_ particular clientele,” Claire says dryly. “But I think I’m just lucky.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard of you: patching up heroes, keeping their secrets.”

“Heard of me?” Claire blinks. She knows that word has gotten around vigilante circles that her apartment is a safe space, but having a reporter know about her is…unsettling, no matter how trustworthy Ben Urich might be.

“I listen. And Karen talks about you sometimes,” Ben says, something warm and amused running through his voice. “You know, with all the contacts you have, you’d be a hell of a source.”

“Yeah, well,” Claire says. “You’d be a hell of a reporter, if you didn’t have too many morals to print what I have to say.”

When Ben speaks again, Claire can hear the smile in it. Ben likes this, Claire thinks—likes someone who can match him word for word. No wonder he and Karen are so close.

“An ethical code is the only thing that separates reporters from tabloid writers,” Ben says. “Even if it doesn’t pay nice. You holding up okay out there?”

“We’re fine,” Claire says. “Just a few more days and we’ll be in California.”

“Good, good. You two stay safe, okay?”

Claire swallows heavily. Ben’s words are soft and measured, but it’s there nonetheless: a father’s plea.

“We will,” she says. “You too, Ben. We’re all in this together.”

“The reporters and the Night Nurse,” Ben says, but before Claire can ask what that means, he continues, “Hand me back over to Karen?”

“Uh. Sure.” Claire moves out to the living room, where Karen is putting in her contacts.

“Thanks,” Ben says. “It was nice talking to you, Claire. We should meet in person if we ever manage to put this Registration business to rest.”

 _If._ Claire wants to contest this possibility of failure, but then again, she’s always known it was there. So instead, she hands the phone over to Karen and slumps on her bed. Claire wonders if she can get another five minutes of sleep in before they have to hit the road.

“Yeah,” Karen says into the phone. “I…I know she is.” She blushes slightly. “I _will_. Okay, thanks, Ben. No, really, we have to hit the road now. Bye.”

Claire closes her eyes and, a second later, starts when Karen taps her on her shoulder.

“Coffee?” Karen says, purse already in hand.

Claire groans. “Coffee.”

After Claire’s had enough coffee to feel human again, she finds that she…actually doesn’t mind this: the road trip. Well, okay, she minds some of it. Claire is a New Yorker born and raised: she’s never been in a car for this long before, and, after two full days of driving, she’s not sure she ever wants to be in a car _again_. But, in between the fleeting naps and back cramps and stomach aches and thirst and hunger and sheer fucking _boredom_ : there’s Karen. There’s singing along to the radio with Karen, and—once they enter the strange, liminal space between state lines where there’s nothing but radio static—there’s talking to Karen.

Claire knows a lot of people, but she can’t afford to get close to many of them: that’s what it’s like, being a nurse to heroes. So maybe it’s only natural that here, unbounded by their routines at home, Claire can open up, can tell Karen things she’s never told anyone before.

She can talk about the moment she decided to become a nurse, when she was five and saw the bruises on the arms and throat of her aunt and just wanted to make it all better; about how Claire was supposed to go over to her mom’s this weekend to make tamales with her, but can’t anymore and feels like shit for it; about how she reread _Matilda_ nearly every day of her last year of nursing school because it was the only way she could convince herself that she would make it out of there.

And Karen tells her things in turn: about how her dad was arrested when she was twelve, how she still remembers the biting cold of a metal rifle against her hands when he taught her how to shoot; about how she misses having a full kitchen to bake and cook in, misses having _people_ to cook for who weren’t her workaholic bosses; about Union Allied and Fisk and the terror of finding Ben Urich half-dead on his living room floor.

“I’m not usually this…open with people,” Claire admits later that night. The shitty motel they’re staying at has a shitty pool, so they’re both sitting on the edge of it and dipping their feet into the lukewarm water.

“Me neither,” Karen says. “I mean, I’m not Matt Murdock about it, but I don’t tell people that stuff. It’s….kind of scary, honestly.”

Claire looks down at the glowing pool water. “A lot of things are these days. The question is…are you talking about good scary or bad scary?”

Karen’s head comes down to rest on Claire’s shoulder. “Good scary. I think.”

Claire nods slowly, not wanting to shift Karen off of her.

“Good,” Claire says softly. “Good scary is a nice change.”

They go to their separate beds, and, instead of sleeping, Claire thinks about the glow of the pool lights on Karen’s feet as Karen kicked at the water.

Later, Claire will think that she should have remembered just how quickly ‘good scary’ can shift to ‘bad scary.’ After all, they live in the real world: not in one of Claire’s fantasy novels. But, despite Ben’s warnings, it hadn’t really occurred to Claire that someone could think of them as a threat _._ It’s not like Claire has billy clubs or super strength; she’s just a woman with a decent first aid kit who doesn’t allocate her free time wisely.

But, apparently, that’s enough for some people to want them out of the picture. _Fuck,_ Claire should have realized that this peace couldn’t have lasted.

“Do you see that car back there?” Karen asks quietly, after they’ve been on the road for a few hours. “The black sedan?”

“Yeah. What about it?”

“It’s been behind us for two hours.”

Claire looks at the rearview mirror. The sedan is a of couple cars behind them; the driver strums their fingers along the steering wheel, looking for all the world like a bored commuter.

“You think they’re following us?” Claire asks. “Black sedan kind of seems like a cliché.”

“Yeah, well. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that the bad guys and good guys both _love_ their fucking clichés.”

Claire can’t disagree. She’d need both hands to count the number of clichéd—if tragic—origin stories she’s heard in her years of patching up heroes.

“Please tell me that you have a plan,” Claire says, “since you seem weirdly used to people in black sedans following you.”

“Does mace count as a plan?”

“ _No-_ ”

“Claire, the options are either to try to lose him in I-80 traffic, wait for him to ambush us, or take him on our terms. And I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of running from people trying to hurt me and my friends.” Karen’s voice is pure ice, even as her hands tremble against the steering wheel.

This is the kind of plan that Matt Murdock would think of, which is all the proof Claire should need to make Karen keep driving. But…bad plan or no, it’s still a plan. And Claire has never been able to resist following brave idiots who have an idea burning inside them.

“We stop at a _public_ place,” Claire says. “We see if he’s actually following us, and, if he is, we see what he wants. We call 9-1-1 the second anything bad happens.”

“We can’t call the police,” Karen says, turning on her blinker and exiting the freeway. “If this guy’s a Pro Reg, he might already _be_ the police. Hell, he might be some government agent that the local police would wet themselves for the opportunity to hand us over to.”

“Okay, for someone who doesn’t read fantasy, you have a _big_ imagination.”

“Better to be paranoid and alive than naïve and at the bottom of a river,” Karen mutters.

 _Jesus, you need therapy. Jesus,_ I _need therapy,_ Claire thinks. Aloud, she says, “‘No ambulances,’ ‘no police…’ You’re sounding a lot like the people I’m used to patching up. Sure you’re not one of them?”

Karen snorts, turning into the first gas station they see. “I’m really not.”

No, she isn’t. Because the heroes Claire helps at least have abilities backing them up when they go into battle. Karen? She just has a can of mace and the total, utter conviction that she will never go down without a fight.

Claire wants to scream at her for it, maybe wants to kiss her for it. But now is not the time for these things, so, instead, she follows Karen out of the car.

The black sedan is parked on the other side of the gas station. Its owner leans against the car, watching Karen and Claire as they approach him.

“What do you want?” Karen says to him.

The man blinks in surprise. “Pardon?”

“Don’t bullshit me; you’ve been following us for over two hours,” Karen says.

“I’m just out for a nice Sunday drive…”

“It’s a Tuesday,” Claire says.

The man checks his phone, hums to himself in thought. “So it is. Ah well. The goal of this was never to stay hidden anyway. We knew that wouldn’t do much good, not against the famous amateur journalist Karen Page,” the man says. As he speaks, he surveys the parking lot as if in boredom. Claire catches the way his eyes dart around though. He’s counting: counting how many witnesses there will be to see whatever is about to go down.

“Good to know that you’re not underestimating me,” Karen says through gritted teeth. “That will make this easier. What do you _want_? Why are you following us? We haven’t done anything. We’re not heroes.”

The man barks out a laugh. “Oh, come on, don’t act like this is unexpected. I’m sure Ben Urich tried to warn you. Did you really think that the _Night Nurse_ could leave New York without anyone noticing? Especially on the day that the Registration Act passed?”

That name again—the one Ben Urich said over the phone. “Night Nurse?” Claire says.

“You don’t even know what they call you?” the man asks, raising an eyebrow. “Claire Temple, how are you supposed to save _anybody_ if you don’t even know the game you’re playing?”

“I don’t play games,” Karen says sharply, stepping out in front of Claire. “And neither does she. This is all just bravado and you know it. You’re either here to get information, threaten us, or kill us. So pick an option or fuck off.”

The man smiles wanly. “You’re just as clever as they say you are, Page. Very well, no more games. I’ll state my case plainly. You’re going after information that would topple this nation’s security if it were to get out. Chaos would ensue; _lives_ would be endangered. Reconsider whether you’re on the winning side right now.”

“Threaten then,” Karen says. “Got it.”

“No,” the man says. “You really don’t. This doesn’t have to be difficult, you know. All you need to do is stop going after the flash drive, and no one will bother you anymore. You two can go back to your happy road trip—you can go home and tell Matt Murdock all about your fun little adventure.”

Claire nearly closes her eyes in resignation, but she knows that to do so would be to admit guilt. She can’t give anything away to this guy—even if he does already know Matt’s name. Oh God, he knows Matt’s _name_ , what if—

No. Claire did not come all this way—she did not _leave her patients behind_ —for her heroes to be threatened like this.

“Fuck. You,” Claire hisses.

The man narrows his eyes, reaches into his jacket, and takes a step forward, but Karen reacts faster—she sprays the mace into the man’s eyes with a practiced hand.

The man yells, cries out in pain as he falls back against his car. “Help!” he yells.

And while this gas station may be secluded, Claire hears enough gasps to realize _exactly_ how many people witnessed what Karen just did.

“We have to go,” Claire says. “ _Karen._ ”

Karen’s frozen where she stands, staring at the man. Claire grabs Karen’s hand and drags her toward the car, but Karen’s body is leaden and reluctant to move. Claire has to practically push her into the passenger seat.

“He wasn’t there to threaten us,” Karen breathes, as Claire peals out of the gas station as if the security cameras haven’t already captured their plates. “He was there to _frame_ us. Make sure there were witnesses, get us angry enough to make a move on him, and then…

“And then get every cop in the country looking for us because we probably just assaulted a federal agent,” Claire says. “It was a trap. And we walked right into it.”

“We—we have to call Ben,” Karen says shakily. “He’ll know what to do.”

They’re at a red light. Claire closes her eyes for a moment and then turns toward Karen, placing a gentle hand over Karen’s own. Claire doesn’t want to say this. She wants to let Karen call Ben, wants nothing more than to see this awful, frightened tension leave Karen’s shoulders when she hears his voice. But…

“I don’t think we can do that,” Claire says. “If we’re being targeted by the Pro Regs, then Ben’s contact might be right—maybe they _are_ listening to what we’re saying. And if they are, then the last thing we want to do is leave a trail to the people helping us.”

Claire wants to say something else: something reassuring. Something that will make this whole mess seem less like a nightmare. But then the light turns green, and Claire has to pull her hand away from Karen’s to drive them away from this place.

Karen leans her head against the window. She doesn’t speak. _That’s_ how Claire knows just how much this whole thing has scared Karen. Karen should be yelling about how wrong all of this is, how this isn’t fair, but instead—she just sits there.

They drive for far longer than they normally would, listening to the news mixed in with white noise as they drive down as many back roads as they can. When it’s nearly midnight, when the road turns blurry and bright in Claire’s eyes, they find a motel far enough off the beaten track to make them almost feel safe sleeping there.

 

***

 

When Claire is woken up in the middle of the night, it takes exactly six seconds for adrenaline to kick in and send her into nurse mode. She knows this from experience. So when Claire wakes up that night to the sound of fluttering, wheezing breaths, it only takes a blink of an eye for her to scramble out of bed and reach for a first aid kit that isn’t there.

Claire looks for the source of the haggard breathing. The hotel’s neon sign filters in through paper-thin curtains to reveal Karen hunched over on herself: hands trembling as they press against her chest. In the between the shadows that the hotel sign casts, Claire can just make out the glint of tears against Karen’s cheeks.

“Karen,” Claire says softly, kneeling beside Karen’s bed. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay. You don’t have to speak; just nod for yes and shake your head for no. Are you experiencing any chest pain?”

A shake of Karen’s head.

“Do you have asthma?”

Another shake. No, Claire didn’t think so.

“I think you might be having a panic attack,” Claire says gently.

Karen nods her head. Ah, so this isn’t her first go-around. Claire probably could have guessed that.

“Do you have any medication you take for something like this?” Claire asks.

A shake of her head. No, of course not. Why would any of Claire’s traumatized friends bother seeking professional health for their PTSD?

“Okay,” Claire soothes. “You’ve done this before, Karen, you know it’ll be over soon. In the meantime, just breathe with me. In…out…in…out…You’re doing real good, Karen, keep it up.”

Claire’s not sure for how long she and Karen breathe together like that. It’s long enough for Claire’s kneels to feel like stone and for the shadows cast by the sign to slink back into the corners of the room. And, at some point during all of that, Karen’s hand grabs onto Claire’s. The grip is nearly crushing, but Claire is a trauma nurse—she’s dealt with worse. So she accepts the shift of her bones under Karen’s and rubs a slow thumb across Karen’s hot skin.

“I-hate this,” Karen whispers. “I hate being so _fucking_ scared.”

There’s a bitterness to Karen’s words that Claire isn’t sure how to respond to. Claire knows where it comes from. She’s heard it in the voices of her heroes when they get dragged through the mud one too many times for them to handle. That’s when that bitter, crackling sound creeps into their voices until they can hardly move: until they can hardly breathe. It’s the one injury that Claire’s never been sure how to deal with, because it’s not physical at all.

The thing is, Claire is not made for comfort—she’s made for honesty, for calling things as she sees them. And right now? When she assesses her and Karen’s situation, she’s not sure if she likes what she sees.

“I hate it too,” Claire says.

Karen gives a half-choked hiccup that Claire thinks is meant to be skeptical.

“You never seem scared,” Karen says. “Y-you’ve patched up half the heroes in New York. You and Matt, and all the others…it’s like you can all just put on a brave face while the rest of us can barely get out of bed in the morning.”

“Pretty sure you’re the bravest person I know, actually,” Claire says, remembering how Karen stepped in front of her when the black sedan guy reached into his jacket. “Man Without Fear notwithstanding. You _do_ know…” Claire sighs. “I meant it, Karen: when I said that the heroes just wear the masks so that no one realizes that they’re human—that they’re _scared_. Man Without Fear, Daredevil…they’re all just names that help them put on the front.”

“Just like Night Nurse?” Karen says, the corner of her mouth twitching upward.

And hey, Claire can take being teased if she gets to see that smile. Still…

“I didn’t chose that name,” Claire groans. “But yeah—I put up a front too. We all do, because we’re scared as shit. We all feel helpless and afraid, and the shit we have to do to _not_ feel like that…” Claire closes her eyes. She remembers the biting cold of a metal baseball bat against her hands as she’d hit it over the head of a Russian mobster, not long after she and Matt first met. “It isn’t pretty.”

“No. It isn’t,” Karen says. Her hand grazes the side of Claire’s face, only lingering for a moment before pulling away. The touch is light and hot, enough to make Claire open her eyes again. And when she does, her eyes meet Karen’s own: bright, blue eyes that are full of tears, but that are also sharper, lighter than they were in the sickly glow of the sign when Claire first woke up.

“So, if I’m the Night Nurse, what does that make you?” Claire murmurs.

Karen shrugs. “Not sure if I get a name. Karen Page: office manager by day, amateur investigative journalist by night isn’t that glamorous.”

“I don’t know about that,” Claire says honestly. “But I guess Night Nurse and Day Office Manager doesn’t sound _quite_ as menacing as we’d like it to.”

“Day Administrative Assistant?” Karen suggests.

“Day Paralegal?”

“Day Secretary?”

“I’ve organized the case files and rescheduled your 3 o’clock,” Claire says in a poor imitation of Daredevil’s growl. It hurts her throat instantly—and she’s going to need to talk to Matt about drinking more herbal tea if that’s what he’s doing to his throat every night—but it’s worth it for the way it makes Karen laugh.

“Hey, I’d still have a better name than ‘Ant Man.’ Though it’s still not quite as cool as Night Nurse,” Karen says. Her smile is soft and shy, her cheeks pink in the sunlight filtering in through the curtains.

Are they _flirting_ over this—over which alias best disguises the hot fear twisting at their stomachs? Claire really _has_ forgotten how to socialize.

As they get ready, that moment of flirtation fades away. Karen is quiet for the rest of the day. Post-panic exhaustion has set in, and Karen can barely keep her eyes open as Claire drives them to a nearby convenience store. It doesn’t help that they can’t use their phones. Absent the routine of hearing Ben’s voice in the morning, Karen becomes small and silent in the seat next to Claire.

Another unfortunate consequence of the phone ban? They now have no clue where the hell they’re going. Google Maps has forsaken Claire, and without the comforting numbering system of New York City’s streets, Claire is lost.

“Got us coffee,” Claire says as she gets back in the car after a stop at the nearest gas station. “ _And_ a map.”

“That’s one problem solved.” Karen sighs. “You know they probably have an APB out on us, right? We’re going to need to change our plates soon. Either that or steal a new car.”

Claire raises an eyebrow. “Do you know _how_ to steal a car?”

“…Maybe.”

Claire decides to table the fact that she is weirdly turned on by that, mostly because she hasn’t even had a sip of coffee yet. Claire needs coffee before she can even _begin_ to unravel the fact that everyone she’s attracted to is _way_ too comfortable breaking the law in the name of justice and/or investigative journalism.

Claire shakes her head, sighs. She opens the map and finds them a route to California.

“I say we get back on the highway,” Claire says. “Every day we spend hiding on back roads is another day the Pro Regs have to hunt down the heroes. If we haul ass, we’ll be nearly to California by the end of the day. Once we’re there, I can find us some backroads to hunker down in.” Claire squints at the miniscule lines on the map. “…I think.”

“And you became a nurse instead of a cartographer?”

It’s the first time that the quiet flatness eases from Karen’s voice since they left the motel. The teasing soothes an ache in Claire’s chest that she didn’t even realize was there.

“I was a huge geography nerd in high school actually,” Claire says. “I thought about spending the rest of my life doing city planning, or mapping out the Mariana Trench.”

Karen raises an eyebrow. “How do you go from geography to nursing?”

“It’s easier than you’d think,” Claire says, though she’s not quite sure how to explain that particular trajectory. “God, imagine if I’d stuck with it. My life would’ve been so different.”

“You probably would’ve been unemployed. I’m not sure if people actually _need_ cartographers anymore…”

“Unemployed and looking for something to do…Maybe I would’ve ended up patching up these idiots anyway,” Claire says, as she traces their route on the map.

“Do you ever…” Karen clears her throat. “Are you glad you ended up doing this? I mean, do you ever…”

“Regret it?”

A slow nod.

Claire doesn’t have to think about her answer. She should—it shouldn’t be so easy to balance scales that are this bloody—but she just doesn’t have to.

“No,” Claire says. “What I do hurts, but the hurt is usually worth it. Aaand sometimes it _isn’t,_ but, for some reason, that hasn’t stopped me from doing it anyway.”

“I know the feeling. Sometimes I wonder if I’m crazy for not just packing it in and moving away from New York,” Karen admits. “I even tried once. But I just can’t make myself do it. Not when Hell’s Kitchen is where the fight is at.”

Claire groans.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Claire reassures her. And—what the hell, she’s had a few sips of coffee since they’ve started talking. She can say it out loud now. “It’s just…I seem to have a type.”

“Oh?”

“Attractive people who get in _way_ in over their head doing what’s right,” Claire says wearily. “It’s a bit distressing, actually.”

Claire is vaguely aware that this is weird—that it’s weird to flirt with someone the day after you were both stalked and terrorized. That it was weird when they flirting this morning too. That Claire probably spends too much time around heroes and has forgotten that flirting over traumatic experiences isn’t a thing that actual people _do_.

Although…maybe it is, or maybe it’s at least a thing that _Karen_ does too, because Karen only looks at Claire, grins, and says, “I seem to have the same problem.”

They don’t talk much beyond that, nor do they last long on the road before giving up and finding a motel. Secretly, Claire is grateful for the shortened day. Last night still lingers in the way that Karen grips the steering wheel, and—after years of patching up heroes and days of running—Claire is tired too.

They get a dirty motel room with only one bed, because it’s all they can afford now that they’ve ditched the credit card that the Pro Regs were probably monitoring. Claire knows that this is the part where they should exchange coy looks about sharing the bed, but honestly, they’re both too exhausted for that. It’s all Claire can do just to shuck off her duffle and collapse on the bed.

Karen’s body hits the space next to Claire. A crackle of static, and then Claire hears the TV being turned on, hears the _whick-whick-whick_ of Karen flipping through the channels.

“Wait,” Claire says, when she spots a familiar mansion on the TV. “Downton Abbey is on.” She grabs the remote from Karen and grins when she checks the TV guide. “It’s a marathon.”

Karen groans, but leans her cheek against Claire’s shoulder and watches the show. It’s an episode from the middle of the season, so Claire has to explain the episode’s context every five minutes, but soon Karen is joining Claire in yelling at Lord Grantham’s fuck ups.

Karen only lasts a few episodes before her breathing slows; her exhales are hot and damp against Claire’s skin. Karen’s hair tickles at Claire’s shoulder, and Claire finds her eyes closing.

 _Nursing really isn’t that different from geography,_ Claire thinks, already half-asleep with Karen so warm and soft at her side. _It’s just a geography of bodies._ Claire is used to mapping out bodies through touch—by testing skin and bruises and cuts, and making these things whole again though stitches and salves—but she thinks she could get used to this too: mapping out Karen’s body just through its simple proximity to Claire’s own.

When Claire wakes up, the room is dark but for the dull glow of the TV. Karen’s body is coiled steel against Claire’s side; it takes Claire fewer than six seconds to realize that something is wrong.

“What is it?” Claire says, already sitting up to look Karen over: no labored breathing, no flushed skin, no shaking hands. Claire quickly realizes that there’s nothing physically wrong with Karen: nothing that Claire can fix.

“It’s…” Karen’s throat shifts as she swallows. The light of the TV flashes on her face, paling and agitating her skin until it’s washed out and dull against the cracking motel walls. “It’s Matt.”

Claire tears her gaze away from Karen to look at the TV—and there Matt is on the screen. He’s wearing a suit and tie in the news footage this program showing. But despite his attire, he doesn’t quite _look_ like Matt Murdock, attorney at law. His lips are too thin for that, his back too straight, his knuckles too white against his cane. He may be wearing his civvies, but in this footage, he looks like Daredevil: ready to go into battle.

Although, given that the news footage shows him being handcuffed outside of his office building, a battle might very well be what he’s up against.

Claire covers her mouth with her hands, tries to remember how to breathe.

It’s not…It’s not that she ever forgot the stakes of what they were doing, what the Registration Act meant; she just…

She just never thought that it would come to this.

“Turn it up,” Claire whispers.

Karen stares blankly ahead for a moment, seemingly transfixed by the screen, before she reaches for the remote and turns up the volume.

 _“Manhattan-based defense attorney Matthew Murdock was arrested this morning on charges of withholding information mandated by the Registration Act. While police haven’t confirmed anything, multiple sources speculate that this blind attorney might_ actually _be the masked vigilante known as Daredevil.”_

“‘This blind attorney,’” Karen mutters viciously. “Just say it. Just say that you think he’s faking it, you fuckers.”

“It’s only speculation—even they said that much. They don’t _know_ anything yet,” Claire says, but there’s not much heart in it. She can’t manage that, not with Matt looking so pale and so _angry_ on the screen.

Karen shakes her head and sighs. When she speaks, her tone is contemplative, her words rapid-fire; it’s the same way she speaks when she’s discussing something with Ben Urich.

“The story is _out there_ , Claire,” Karen says. “And it doesn’t matter if it’s speculation, or what evidence they have, or even if they issue a retraction later— _visuals_ are what people remember. And this is one _hell_ of a visual.”

She’s right. Matt may not care about visuals, but Claire can’t deny the drama of the image that Matt’s arrest makes. On screen, a dozen reporters scream questions at Matt as he’s herded toward a police car. Matt’s head tilts, his hands twitch, and Claire can see how desperate he is to punch, to kick, to _fight_ his way out of this—but instead he allows himself to be pulled into the car without a word.

Karen turns to Claire, her eyes flashing fiercely in the pale light that the television casts.

“Do you think that he knew?” Karen says.

“That he was about to be arrested?”

“That all of this was coming,” Karen says. “We thought that he hadn’t planned this out, but I don’t know…Maybe this is why he sent us away. Maybe he knew that he wasn’t safe from this.”

Claire wants to correct her, to say that Matt Murdock has _never_ been safe from this world. But then Claire thinks back to the night that Fisk blew up the Russians—remembers Matt’s voice, shaky over the phone as he’d said a goodbye he’d never anticipated having—and wonders if Karen is right. Maybe Matt has learned since then—maybe that’s why he wanted them out of New York before disaster struck.

It wouldn’t be surprising. After all, Matt Murdock doesn’t know how to deal with goodbyes. He can’t anticipate them, and, even after decades of practice, he still flinches away from them as if they were physical blows.

“Maybe,” Claire says finally. “It didn’t end up making us any safer though.”

“No. It didn’t.”

Karen throws the remote to the floor and grabs her purse, heading for the door. Claire gapes after her for only a moment before trailing Karen out of the room.

“Karen? What are you doing?” Claire says.

“Going to the bar.”

Claire could have guessed that much. The only buildings within walking distance of their dinky little motel are a bar, a convenience store, and a pharmacy—and Claire knows which one _she_ would like to be in right now.

But she’s also known the Nelson and Murdock crew long enough to know that letting them drink right after receiving bad news? Is a _bad_ idea. But Karen’s longer strides put Claire at a disadvantage, so by the time Claire enters the bar, Karen already has a glass in front of her.

“Is now really the time to be getting wasted?” Claire pants.

“You know what was on the TV before Matt?” Karen says. “ _Us,_ Claire. Footage of us taking down that sedan guy. We’re _fugitives._ We were idiotic enough to think that we could stop a _civil war,_ and now—now we’ve just made things worse _._ So yeah, it seems like the perfect time to get wasted to me.”

“Oh, screw you,” Claire says, snatching the glass from Karen’s hands.

Karen glares at her. “Excuse me?”

“You think any of my patients are alive right now because I let them go off and fight until they self-destruct like they _want_ to half the time?”

“I’m not self-destructing.”

“Oh yeah? Because that’s what it looks like to me. Our pictures are on the news, and you’re going into a public place where you could get caught—and all so you can drink and give up!” Claire hisses.

The steel in Karen’s voice returns, replacing the warbling note that’d lingered there since they’d entered the bar. “This is _not_ me giving up. I’m _not_ doing that, I just, I…I can’t be in that motel room right now. Not when…”

Not when the afterimage of Matt’s arrest still riddles the screen of the TV. Claire understands. She understands, but she’s not sure what to do about it. Because at the end of the day, Claire is best at dealing with the physical—and while the hurt that Karen carries is nearly tangible, it’s still not something Claire can touch and stitch and heal.

God, their lives are so damn complicated. Claire had always wondered if leaving New York would make things _less_ complicated, but ‘complicated,’ Claire is beginning to learn, might just be something she was born to carry: just like Karen was born to carry that intangible hurt.

“I’m sorry. We don’t have to go back to the motel room,” Claire says softly. She puts the glass back on the bar. “But we don’t have to waste the last of our food money on this shit either.”

“Then where do we go? What are we supposed to do now that…?”

Claire doesn’t know. But she holds out her hand for Karen’s anyway.

“We go to the corner of this bar,” Claire says, “where there’s a jukebox and something resembling a dance floor. And then we dance to whatever shitty romantic songs we can find on there.”

Karen laughs—it’s brittle and sharp, but its existence makes Claire’s stomach glow warmly with relief.

“Feels like you’re taking me to prom,” Karen says, putting her hand in Claire’s.

“Honestly, I’m just trying to find a way for this night to end without us screwing everything up,” Claire says. “But yeah. I’d take you to prom if you wanted me to.”

They find an appropriately slow and cheesy romantic song, and as Karen and Claire sway awkwardly in each other’s arms—just like prom—Karen, her voice low and soft, admits, “I think I’d let you. Take me to prom, that is.”

Claire smiles. “I kind of figured.”

And, well, she had. The signals she and Karen have been giving each other over the past couple days haven’t exactly been ambiguous. But it’s still nice to hear them confirmed. Even before this civil war bullshit, none of Claire’s friends or lovers could have been considered forthright people—heroes and their allies are always immersed in some secret or another.

And yeah, that’s charming and alluring to a point. _But sometimes,_ Claire thinks, resting her head on Karen’s shoulder and closing her eyes as the soft strands of Karen’s hair whisper against her cheek, _it’s just nice to dance with someone._

Karen clears her throat and says, “Dungeons and Dragons.”

Claire doesn’t want to move her head—would happily lean on Karen’s shoulder forever if she could—but it’s worth the effort to give Karen a skeptical glance for that statement.

“Uh…okay?” Claire says.

“A few days ago, you asked me if I have any guilty pleasures,” Karen says. “And I don’t, I—I like what I like, and I won’t apologize for it. But…yeah. Dungeons and Dragons. My character is a human bard. I haven’t had time to play for years, but, uh…that’s my guilty pleasure. That, and now probably Downton Abbey, thanks to you.”

Claire kisses Karen—she cannot help but do so. And Karen kisses her back, mouth soft and sweet against hers. Karen kisses Claire with a smile, and Claire’s insides turn into something hot and liquid in response.

“Maybe we should get out of here,” Karen murmurs in between kisses. “We’re probably drawing too much attention to ourselves right now.”

“Oh, _now_ you’re the voice of reason,” Claire teases, but accepts Karen’s gentle tugs as she drags them both out of the bar. The desert air is cool and crisp outside, burning Claire’s lungs when she breathes in, numbing her lips where Karen had kissed her.

Karen leads Claire to the door of their motel room, but hesitates before entering.

“Hey,” Claire says, squeezing her hand. “We don’t have to go back in there.”

Karen shakes her head. “I’m done being afraid. There’s a bed in there, Claire Temple, and we’re going to fucking sleep in it.”

Karen makes good on the ‘fucking’ part of that sentence more so than the ‘sleeping’ part. They grind against each other slowly, languidly, and Claire reflects that, after the day they’ve had, this should probably be some sort of adrenaline-rushed affair, full of sweating and grunting—but Claire doesn’t feel the need to rush this. She feels like she can take her time with Karen: take the time to lick her way into Karen’s mouth, to kiss her and stroke her and suck her until they’re both gasping from it.

Karen, though, is clearly impatient. When Claire climbs back toward Karen’s face for a kiss, Karen reaches down and strokes Claire with a delicious frequency. Claire hitches a surprised laugh at how frantic Karen’s touches are.

“What?” Karen says, grinning when Claire moans at a particularly wicked twist of Karen’s fingers.

“Nothing,” Claire says, pressing a kiss to Karen’s collarbone. “Except that I’m going to last like two seconds here. You really don’t waste any time, do you?”

“It’s not wasting it when I’m with you.” Karen says it softly, even sincerely—but it is _such_ a line.

“Smooth,” Claire smirks, and Karen only moves her fingers faster in response, and—

And yes, it _is_ a line, but that doesn’t make it any less true. They’re only here together because some bureaucrats fucked up their priorities, and they only rushed into each other’s arms because they couldn’t do this alone: but none of it feels like a waste.

It’s nearly an hour later, when heated kisses have slowed to sleepy cuddles, that Claire finally voices what’s been at the back of both their minds since they watched that awful news report.

“What do we do now?” Claire says.

Karen hums, wraps an arm around Claire’s waist. “Maybe I should let you decide. I kind of like how your plans have worked out so far today.”

“My only plan was to stop you from getting drunk,” Claire laughs. “The rest…Well, yeah, that did work out pretty well actually.”

“I’ll say,” Karen says slyly, pressing a kiss to Claire’s shoulder when Claire snorts.

“But…really,” Claire says. She moves so that she’s on her side and facing Karen. “What do we do?”

“We keep going.”

“As simple as that?”

“Of course not,” Karen says. “We’re fugitives, and Matt’s been captured and…and god knows if we can even turn the tide at this point, but we have to _try_. The only way we can help Matt—help _any_ of the heroes—is if we get this flash drive. Claire, we are only a _day’s_ drive from finding out what’s really going on here! We can’t stop now.”

And oh, how Claire loves it: the fire that burns in Karen’s heart. It’s the same one that flares in Claire’s—the same one that flares in Matt’s and Jessica’s and in all of the other heroes that Claire has saved.

“We won’t stop,” Claire promises. “Someone has to watch out for our fucking Watchmen, right?”

“Damn straight.”

And, Claire thinks, when she and Karen settle against each other and close their eyes, maybe now they can watch out for each other too.

 

***

 

Karen wakes Claire with soft kisses and coffee, and Claire can almost pretend that this is a normal morning. Unfortunately, the illusion only lasts for about a minute before Karen informs Claire that they’re going to steal a car.

“This feels weirdly like foreplay,” Claire says, while Karen messes with the dashboard of a truck that Karen found in the town over.

“Given that you’re usually stitching people up while you’re flirting with them, this is probably an improvement over your usual foreplay,” Karen grunts, pulling out some wires and doing…hell, Claire doesn’t know what she’s doing. Claire doesn’t know anything anymore.

“I can’t disagree with that,” Claire admits, and Karen leans over to press a kiss to her mouth before yelling in triumph as she successfully hotwires the car.

Now, when they drive, Karen’s hand sneaks over to idly rub at the knee of Claire’s jeans, and Claire reaches over to brush Karen’s hair behind her ears when the jostle of the truck disrupts it. It’s nice. And Claire knows it can’t last.

Because later that day—after nearly a week of travel, after _hours_ of icy fear and sickly sweet anxiety swirling in their guts—they arrive at the apartment of Ben’s contact. Claire and Karen glance at each other, take a deep breath, and then Karen tentatively knocks on the door.

And no one answers.

“Well, that’s anticlimactic,” Karen says, knocking again.

“At this point, anticlimactic might be better than the alternative,” Claire points out.

“I don’t know—feels a bit too ominous to me,” Karen murmurs. “Like someone is about to jump out of the shadows.”

At this point, it’s not an unlikely possibility. Even if there is nothing lying in wait for them inside this apartment, every second they loiter outside the door only makes them look more like the suspicious fugitives that they actually _are._

Claire drops to her knees and pulls a bobby pin out of her hair, smirking when Karen makes a choked noise in response.

“Liking the view?” Claire says, sticking the bobby pin into the door’s lock.

Karen clears her throat. “You can pick locks?”

Of course _that’s_ what Karen finds attractive about this. Though, given that Claire got flustered watching Karen _steal a car,_ Karen unfortunately has the moral high ground here.

They’re probably both a bit messed up, to be honest. Claire finds that she’s okay with this.

“I was a nerdy kid who spent all her time reading fantasy and spy novels,” Claire says. “Yeah, I taught myself how to pick locks.”

“Will you…” Karen blushes. “Will you teach me later?”

“It’s a date,” Claire says. And yeah, when she’d envisioned trying to date again, she hadn’t _quite_ pictured teaching her partner how to pick _locks,_ but—

Well, that’s the thing about Karen Page, isn’t it? She always surprises you.

Claire hears the sharp _snick_ of the lock giving under her efforts and rises to her feet. “You know there might not be anything good waiting on the other side of that door.”

“No way to know unless we go in.”

Karen says it lightly, but Claire knows that neither of them are prepared for what they do find inside: overturned furniture, books and photos scattered across the floor, a damn _dent_ in the wall that’s about the shape of someone’s head…

“Fuck,” Claire whispers.

“The Pro Regs already got him,” Karen breathes. “ _God,_ we’re such idiots.”

“What do you mean?” Claire says, examining the dent in the wall and wondering what the accompanying head wound must look like.

“Claire, they played us,” Karen says. Her hands curl into fists at her sides. “The sedan guy tricked us, made us waste time taking back roads and laying low, and then, while we were running around panicking, they beat us here. They took the computer, the flash drive. Ben’s contact might not even be…”

Karen’s fists uncurl, and she covers her mouth with shaking hands.

“Hey,” Claire says. She places a hand on Karen’s arm. “We don’t know what happened here. There was a struggle, but there aren’t any blood stains—if this guy is as valuable as he claims to be, he’s probably just locked up somewhere. This is a _kidnapping_ , Karen. Isn’t that still something Ben could print?”

“And who’s going to corroborate our story?” Karen says. “Our word’s no good anymore, and Ben’s contact was practically a hermit—no one will suspect foul play. Not when there’s no body, no proof: just this…musty old apartment.”

“So…so that’s it,” Claire sighs. “All those times that Matt and the other heroes saved our asses, and now we can’t even save them.”

“…No,” Karen says, slowly shaking her head. “No, this isn’t over.”

Karen begins searching through the debris, leafing through books and overturning couch cushions to find—what? That the flash drive is magically still here?

“Karen…” Claire says.

“No,” Karen says firmly. “I know you’re about to reassure me or—or try to tell me that we did our best, but we’re not done here. I don’t care that the Pro Regs got the flash drive. Ben said that this guy was paranoid and old school; there’s no way he didn’t keep paper copies of his work.”

“Wouldn’t the Pro Regs have already gotten those? They turned this place over.”

“They tried to,” Karen says. She grabs a knife from the kitchen and moves into the cramped bedroom. She feels along the seam of the mattress. “But I think they were in a rush. I think they knew we were right behind them.”

Karen tears into the mattress, puts a hand inside to dig around, and, after a few moments, says, “And that’s why they missed this.”

When Karen pulls her hand out of the mattress, she’s clutching a fistful of papers.

“Is that…” Claire asks, stepping closer.

“I think so,” Karen says. She leafs through the papers, then reaches back into the mattress to pull out a whole stack of them. After a few more minutes of examination, she nods. “Yeah. It’s a mess and his handwriting is even worse than Matt’s, but, yeah. This is it. I mean, we’ll have to go through it more carefully later, but it looks like he’s got sources, timelines, an entire fucking paper trail: _proof_ that the Pro Reg enforcers are hiring criminals to do their dirty work.”

“And it’s publishable?”

“Oh yeah,” Karen says. “Stark will probably sue for libel or some shit, but what can he do about it? With a story this big, there’s no way he can stop Ben from getting this on the front page.”

“Then…then we did it.”

Of course, Claire knows it’s not that simple. Heroes are still being hunted, Claire and Karen are still on the run, and they still have to get these papers all the way back to New York for this to be a true victory. And there’s only telling what the fallout will be once this story actually gets _published._ The war is far from over.

But—they’re _alive_. They’re alive and they finally have proof in their hands. They’re _together,_ in every sense of the word. For now, that’s more than enough.

“We did it,” Karen confirms, pulling Claire into her arms. They hold each other close, and Claire knows that she never wants to let Karen go. “All we need to do now is get these papers back to Ben.”

“Oh, that’s all?” Claire huffs.

“Shouldn’t be too hard,” Karen says. “After all, we make one hell of a team.”

“Yeah,” Claire says. She presses a sweet, chaste kiss to Karen’s lips. “We kind of do.”

And as much as Claire wants to stay in this moment—to keep her body pressed against Karen’s—they can’t linger here. They’ve exposed themselves enough just staying here long enough to have this conversation. They wipe their fingerprints off of the apartment as best as they can, and Karen stuffs the papers into her purse.

“Come on,” Karen says, reaching for Claire’s hand. “If we hurry, we can still get a bit of driving in today before it gets dark.”

Claire squeezes Karen’s hand. “All right. Let’s go be heroes then.”

Karen laughs, but she bites her lip as they get into the car. After a moment of staring at the steering wheel, Karen nods.

“Yeah,” Karen says, turning to Claire and grinning. “Let’s go be heroes.”


End file.
